My Days without You

My sleep patterns are drifting slowly to something that the world at large might recognize but I doubt it. Without the structure of employment to set that 'normal' hourly schedule, without a boss to check her watch, a mother to call up the non-existent stairs, a husband or lover girl to be pulling out of the sheets and dressing themselves gargling in the bathroom and sliding drawers and shutting doors; without a daughter to need a ride somewhere, I am still rootless and un-fancied free to sleep eat and wander as I please.  I'll share that information with you my time zone shifted away from me friend and almost lover.

I tire easily, and bore easier still; am petulant and secretly I fear I am without couth and am gone flatulent due to lack of need to behave in lady like ways.  Matters of grace and the imposition of care for other's mannerly concerns have dropped away.  I dress in mismatched and at times recycled clothing, some mornings or afternoons I bathe in the manner français.  I have taken up the perfume I swore I would not return to; though the cost for five point five ounces of it has climbed ceiling ward; like so much of my past it has been discontinued.

Obviously, to everyone, I still write; but with greater trepidation, more hesitation; those soaring moments of prosery and that desire to learn proper form, meter, and rhyme schemes and grow an impressive vocabulary seem to come and go.  I wander dA in a shell shocked PTSD 1000 yard stare state; all the pretty shiny spinning works, all the spider webs of words trap hours, and in stunned bemusement and slack jawed amazement I find myself wondering what the writers and painters of the 1920s and 1930s in Paris would think and say.  No restaurants to sit eating in, no bars, no night clubs, no dancing, no burning cigarettes in long seductive holders; "Look Hemingway! BEHOLD!" Perhaps his shotgun was an imposition of precognition.

I see primarily strangers and not dead people; I speak softly to them, I find myself looking away into distances often.  I am and probably always will be, a day dreamer, and I am sure people think less of me for going Navaho on them and rather than answering their questions, when made at me, dodging and speaking randomly. "How are you today Miss Mandy, remember me we spoke about river currents and ice composition?" In reply I am as likely to say "Look how that woman there on the street leans as she walks, I was told once, sir, that that is significant; she might have a mild form of epilepsy"  as I am to touch familiar based and anchored topics from previous conversations. That is representative of how discourse between myself and people in the coffee shop named after the father of Helios, Eos, and Selene is conducted by me.  I miss you also.  Yes, at times deeply though I am not concerned regarding your future. You were an amazing ten days and thank you for those moments in the middle of the night when you reached out and touched between my legs with studied delight.  Thank you for your trust, stories of your life and your interest in my writing.






grey eyes watch late morning traffic patterns through drifts of cigarette smoke


:thumb336359433: :thumb336209899:





:thumb336398658: